


for the hope of it all

by makapedia



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Body Image, Comfort Sex, Devotion, Established Relationship, F/M, Insecurity, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: Things like confidence and self worth arehardwhen you've spent the past five years as a duck.
Relationships: Ahiru | Duck/Fakir (Princess Tutu), mentioned/implied onesided fakir/mytho
Comments: 18
Kudos: 88





	for the hope of it all

"Is something wrong?"

Ahiru yelps and nearly takes his floor-length mirror down with her. She flails, bare, freckled knees and chicken legs and messy braid, and Fakir sits up straight in bed as she hits the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"Ahiru," he says, scooting to the edge of the mattress, stretching to reach out and grasp her scrawny shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Well, now she's sitting butt-naked on his hardwood floor. Doubtful that her pride will ever _be alright_ again, she presses her hands to her face and mutters, "Please let me die."

He exhales through his nose. The hand on her shoulder is warm and sure, and the feel of it kind of makes her want to cry a little - there are calluses on his fingers from holding his pen too tightly, and that strikes a chord in her, something guilty and delicate she can't begin to put a name to right now. Instead, she scoots back until her shoulder blades are pressed to the mattress, hugging her legs to her chest.

"Sorry." His thumb idly strokes along the curve of her shoulder. "I can't do that."

"Can't or _won't_ ," she puffs pathetically, face pressed to her knees.

Fakir sighs. "A bit of both."

"I'm sorry I almost broke your mirror."

"It's fine." The bedsheets shift, and then he's slipping both hands beneath her armpits and heaving her back into bed. She yelps and squirms, but it's like she weighs nothing at all, and then she's sitting, back facing him, feeling naked and clumsy and stupid. "Hey."

"Can we just pretend you didn't see anything?"

"Tell me what's wrong."

But she really would rather just die. Ahiru chews her lower lip and stares at her lap. Bare, freckled thighs, so skinny - if he laid his head on her lap, she's sure there would be nothing there to pillow him. She is skin and bones, scrawny and shapeless, and to be caught wearing nothing in his bedroom and trying to psych herself up mentally in the mirror is just too much embarrassment, even for her. Her pride will literally never recover. There is comfort at least in Fakir having the decency to not openly mock her for it, but still - he'd seen her. It will live on in his subconscious forever.

"... Sorry," she says instead.

Ahiru doesn't need to see his expression to know the face he's making - brows furrowed, mouth hard, that particular winkle between his eyes that always made her want to kiss him. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"... Do you," the bed shifts beneath him, mattress creaking. "... Do you regret it?"

Heat rushes to her face immediately. "N-No!"

"Okay."

His hand presses to her back soothingly. She should be embarrassed at how thoroughly it calms her - it's like a single touch from him can quiet her nerves, and that - well, she doesn't deserve such kindness. It makes her feel selfish and greedy and every other ugly feeling that's been brewing inside of her for a week now.

"Will you turn around?"

"Nnnnnn…"

"Please?"

Fakir is using his manners. How is she supposed to say no to that? That guilt twinges in her again, like a plucked guitar string, and slowly, shyly, she shifts where she sits. When the weight of his stare is too great - calm eyes, even now, looking her over for bruises - she grabs a pillow and holds it to her (flat) chest.

That wrinkle between his brows deepens. "... Is that it?"

"I didn't say anything!" she whines.

"You are the least subtle person I know," Fakir says, so reasonably. It seems he can read her just as easily as she can read him. "I heard you crying, you know."

Kill her now. Ahiru hides her face in the pillow now too and tries very hard not to think about how it smells like him, and how even that threatens to undo her. She is in so despairingly deep, heels so far overhead, and all she can do is sit and hide behind a sack of feathers - and isn't that ironic, she thinks dejectedly. After all of this time, the stupid duck is still just that. Nothing has changed.

Nothing will change. Fakir can write whatever fairy tales he wishes, can paint her with any color, any stroke - Ahiru will always be Ahiru. Clumsy, stupid Ahiru.

"Sorry," she squeaks, shoulders bunching up. "You should've- I don't deserve-"

"Ahiru."

"I just…! You waited so long, a-and you worked so hard to make it happen, and after all of that you get me, and…!" She sniffles and mourns his pillow now, too, for it has been tainted by her tears and snot and sniveling. "I'm not even pretty. I still look-"

"I never said that."

"You don't have to! I have eyes you know, and I'm not as stupid as everyone thinks I am. I know what people are supposed to look like, what, what pretty girls are supposed to look like, and I'm not that!" Women, she thinks, what _women_ are supposed to look like; Ahiru is twenty now and just about as tiny as she'd been at fourteen. They'd spent so much time waiting, and she'd spent so long being unable to properly hold him at all, and now - it's like nothing and everything has changed all at once. Ahiru is still tiny and clumsy and helpless, still can't cook, still doesn't know how to properly be a person, and Fakir doesn't even get a _pretty_ girlfriend out of it.

"You're being stupid."

" _You're_ being stupid!" Ahiru hits him with the pillow instead of hiding behind it. "You - you wasted so much time on me! You never had to!"

Despite being bombarded by his own pillow, the stare he fits her with is depressingly sincere. "I did."

"I would have understood - I still would understand, if you decided you wanted someone else." Her eyes sting, and oh, of course she's crying now. "You don't have to stick with me forever just because of some promise you made to a pathetic little girl at the bottom of a lake. It's…! It's your life too, you know, and-"

"It's my life too," Fakir says, and though his tone is level, his expression is almost a bit angry. There's a press to his lips, a crook of his brows, and Ahiru smashes the pillow to his face instead of thinking about it. "-! Ahiru!"

He doesn't get it. His life would be actively easier without her around. He wouldn't have to spend so much time tending to his stories, careful to keep her flesh and not feathered. If she was just a duck, was just a stupid pet, she's sure his life would be better. Fakir could move on and find someone who shared interests with him, someone who could read those thick novels he loves so much, someone who could go to the opera and stay awake the whole time, someone who could talk to him like an intellectual and not cry when they get too frustrated.

Fakir could have someone tall. He wouldn't have to bend down so far to kiss them. Wouldn't have to worry about their feelings. For goodness sake, Fakir could have someone who could tell him that they loved him, without fear of disappearing in a flash of light, even after all of this time.

"I can't do anything for you!" she blurts, eyes full of tears. Ahiru hates the way her voice cracks when she cries, but she can't stop, physically cannot keep herself from blabbering. "I can't cook and I'm no good at cleaning, and I barely remember how to walk sometimes, nevermind dance, and nobody even remembers me anyway, so it's not like I have any friends anymore, and-"

"And who's fault is that?" Fakir grunts, throwing the pillow aside.

"Mine!" The breath she takes is tremendously difficult. "I'm me!"

"You were dealt an unfair hand," he says, eyes pinning her where she sits. "If anyone else was in your shoes they would've said it wasn't worth the hurt, but you did it anyway. It's not your fault some tragedy obsessed geezer decided your life was going to be more difficult. You're making the best of a bad situation. You always have been."

She laughs humorlessly. Ahiru tries to scrub the tears from her eyes and put on her brave face. "That doesn't mean you have to make the best of a bad situation with me. You- you were dealt a bad hand too, and you _overcame_ it, and-"

"And maybe I _want_ to spend my time with you." He scoffs. "Stop putting words in my mouth."

It strikes her then how impressive it is that he can have this conversation while also basically naked. Fakir, at least, has bedsheets pooled around his lap, and looks delightfully rumpled by sleep and sex, hair loose around his shoulders, sitting lean and tall. He still manages to look so serious during it, and it doesn't even phase her how silly it should be, fighting with her like this while they're both bare, while he has a particularly dark hickey blooming on the crook of his neck.

Ahiru sniffles. Shifts, hugging her arms to herself instead, trying to passively cover herself up.

"... You didn't have to keep your word like that. You still don't." The smile is sad and it stings, but she can't help it. "I'd be a terrible wife. And mother."

Fakir chuffs and leans forward to knock lightly on her forehead. "You're the most nurturing person I know."

"Baby birds aren't the same! And besides, you hate the way they break in the window when I feed them in the morning-"

"You hate that I leave the light on and write when you're trying to sleep."

"That's different!" This is his house, for goodness sake! "You pay for everything, and do all of the cooking and cleaning, and I just-"

It seems he has had enough of listening to her cry. A hand on her face tilts her jaw up, and then Fakir is leaning forward and kissing her, warm and sure. It's more than she could ever deserve, this kindness from him, and it only makes her cry more, when he brushes his fingers through her hair tenderly, as if she is something to be treasured.

She sniffles when he pulls away. Can't make herself smile when he presses his forehead to hers, thumb gingerly stroking her jaw.

"It wasn't Princess Tutu I swore my life to," he mutters. "It was the little duck who cried for me."

That's not fair. "That little duck can't give you anything," she confesses, feeling pathetic and small and warm and loved, all at once. It makes her want to cry again. More than that, it makes her want to melt beneath him and play pretend, wants to play the part of pretty human girl, wants to stretch her legs and link them around his hips.

"She's already given me more than I deserve."

"No," Ahiru says, lips trembling. "No, she- I-"

"And the bullheaded girl who refused to let me do things on my own." The way he leans back to look at her does make her cry again, and Ahiru rubs her eyes dolefully. "Because they're the same person. And they've always been the same person. You're the only person I know who would willingly take on the part of Princess Tutu. It's a terrible, thankless job, but you said yes, because you thought it would help."

"I wanted to be a girl so badly," she wails. "I wanted…! It was so lonely by myself on the lake, and when I thought about being there for the rest of my life, with all of those feelings and just bird bones, I just…! I was selfish. I was _always_ selfish."

He sighs and leans to press a kiss to her forehead. "Idiot. You're the least selfish person I know."

"I stole years of your life!"

"You can't steal what's been given to you," he says, expression level. She wonders how he can do it, how he can face all of these feelings and still remain calm, can keep his wits about him.

Presently, Ahiru feels like hiding her face in his blankets and willing her bones to shift back into her old self. Life was easier when she was just a duck, yearning and longing for what she couldn't have. It was painful, existing in between, being caught between two worlds, but in some ways it was easier, less scary.

She hiccups and stares at her lap instead, unable to look him in the eye. There's too much sincerity swimming there, a depth of love she's far too afraid to drown in right now. Ahiru wears a costume, walks in false skin, and steals time, so much time. "You deserve a real girl."

"You _are_ a real girl."

"A tall one. A _pretty_ one." Ahiru presses her lips together. "One with boobs."

The noise he makes is almost a wheeze, maybe a laugh. "What."

"I'm bony and not nice to hug. I don't… I'm so _flat,_ " she says, chest pinching. "I'm still just a stupid duck. In fairy tales, when princes fall in love with mermaids and make wishes to be together forever, they're pretty. And they can sing. And dance. And they have boobs!"

Fakir sighs and tugs her against his chest. "What in the world have I done to make you think I care about that?"

"I thought…!" His skin is so warm, and his leftover cologne is something woodsy and simple, and she _is_ still naked, okay. Ahiru blushes to the roots of her hair. "Who doesn't care about that? I just, I thought, okay, I can't give him anything substantial, and I'm bad at everything I do, but at least I can make… being _in bed_ together enjoyable or something, but I can't even do that right…"

He kisses the crown of her head fondly. "You're stupid."

Her face burns. "I know! That's what I've been saying! Aren't you listening to me?"

"Yes." His lips press to her forehead, brushing her bangs aside to find her skin, and his hand slides down the length of her back reassuringly. "You're just worrying about nothing."

"I'm not!"

"If you think I'm shallow enough to care about something like the size of your chest, then I'm clearly doing something wrong." His arms are so long, and he circles them around her so effortlessly. Ahiru sits, chest to chest with him, and tangles her own arms around the small of his back, unable to fight the seductive heat of his body. "Perhaps we need to try again so I can get it right."

Right. Apparently she's going to spend the rest of her night with rosy cheeks. "I didn't- it's not that I think you care about it, just…"

He sighs and kisses the shell of her ear. The feel of his breath so close to her face makes her brain fizzle for a moment, and Ahiru sits, stalled, knees shaking, embarrassed to be so thoroughly overstimulated over something so stupid. Just moments ago she'd been crying! "I like you just the way you are," he says quietly, almost shyly. Such a blatant compliment is rare from him, and Ahiru allows herself a singular minute to bask in it, blushing more brightly now than even before. "And I wouldn't change a thing about you."

"But-"

"If you were bigger I wouldn't be able to lift you so easily," he says, and there's certain fondness to his tone. He proves such effortlessly, and tucks an arm beneath her behind to shift the both of them, and then he's laying her down, nestled on his other pillow, braid pulled over her shoulder. "See?"

It's hard to hide anything from him in this position. And he still has that sheet around his waist, twisting at the hip to lean over her, eyes dark like night, deep and mysterious and without the fearsome edge he's so famous for.

"I want to be your partner," she says finally, a lip chewed beneath her teeth. "Not… not your pet."

"You were never my pet." He looks appalled at the idea.

"I felt like it," Ahiru admits. It was safe, tucked beneath his chin, being held in his arms - it was

safe, when he'd pick off crumbs from his sandwich and feed her, and it was safe, even in longing and pain. She had wanted him like nothing else, but to want something and not be able to have it - it's a special hurt, one that haunts and aches and bruises but also exists behind a curtain. Not like this, with her heart out in the open, with her flaws on display, beneath the microscope of his watchful eyes.

Eyes that read nothing but fondness. It should be funny - she's cut herself on the edge of his glare so many times, has been on the receiving end of just about every nasty thing he's ever said - but it's the softness she finds now that threatens to undo her.

It's not really very funny at all. What more can she do? What can she ever do to deserve being looked at like this?

"You weren't," he says. "Aren't. You've always been Ahiru, even if you couldn't say so."

Autonomy will twist her in too many complicated circles. The two of them are so messed up, she thinks dejectedly. She, nothing but a tiny, clueless duck, in far over her head, always, useless and clumsy; and he the fated knight come earnest author, he, who devotes his time to helping her find a happily ever after that was never hers to begin with. There's something to be said about fate, and perhaps authorial intent, but it's too convoluted for someone as bird brained as her to sort through right now.

"... I dunno," she says then, still chewing her lip dejectedly. "Maybe I really was just a regular old bird Drosselmeyer plucked out of the lake. Maybe nobody else was stupid enough to want to be Princess Tutu."

Fakir grumbles something and then shifts his weight; his knee digs into the mattress beside her hip, and then he's straddling her properly, and nosy Ahiru's eyes sink down the length of his torso before she has the grace to remember that it's not normally socially acceptable to stare at a dick just because it's there.

"The last thing I want to do right now is talk about him," Fakir says, then clears his throat. When she looks back to his face he's blushing too, and something sinks in her tummy, low and molten. "If you don't mind."

"Ah! Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to, it's just-"

"It's fine." His voice doesn't crack but his expression sure does, and the smile he gives her is as honest as it is shy. "I'm looking too."

He's been looking at her all this time. She ought to slap him for it, or something, but he never does it in a way that makes her feel too terribly embarrassed. She supposes she should; Ahiru really is just bony hips and ribs and elbows, freckled from her nose to her toes. Not exactly textbook dream girl, all things considered, and she does fluster over it for a good few moments, but then he smiles at her again, heat in his face, and that molten feeling low in her gut catches proper flame and melts everything in her to mush.

"... Sorry," she squeaks anyway.

"Stop that."

"Sorry!"

Fakir shakes his head and sighs. She wants to blurt out another apology, despite herself, but before she has a chance he's bowing his head and pressing a kiss to the crook of her neck, and, well, Ahiru's never been very good at rational thought anyway.

It's a good thing he's good at taking charge. It lets her get away with doing dumb things like planting her hands on his back and digging her nails in, as if finding purchase on him will do her any favors. He's better with his hands, and the way he strokes down the barely-there curve of her hip, along the crease of her thigh, to between her legs - it makes her gasp, lashes fluttering, and Fakir only kisses his way to her collarbone. Faintly, she can make out the smile on his lips.

"I, oh, I didn't mean you had to-"

"Shhh."

She ought to be upset. He's shushing her the way he does his horse, but that pretty hand is between her legs properly now, and Ahiru is human enough to widen her legs and tangle a hand of her own into his hair.

He's so good with his hands. Long, pretty fingers, playing her like a fiddle. Ahiru cover her mouth with her free hand to try and mute her sounds at least a little bit - because it's embarrassing, to gasp and sigh and moan every time he does so much as _touch_ her - but then he's kissing her throat, down between her breasts, and one delicate finger sinks knuckle-deep into her.

"Oh!"

His forehead is still sweaty from sleep, and the way his bangs stick up as he tilts his face up to look at her is both adorable and weirdly attractive. "Okay?"

She wants to crush him and hug him for the rest of time. "Y.. Yes! Um, yes, please-!"

The way he touches her is so meticulous. He's careful with how he handles her, like she's something worth protecting, as if she's made of glass or porcelain - which is as sweet as it is stupid, and Ahiru can't help but smiling, however delicately, beneath the palm of her hand at the tenderness of it all. He's slow, as his thumb slowly circles her clit, and her legs widen of their own accord, eager, far too eager, but she can't help it. His mouth presses just beneath the barely-there curve beneath her right breast and Ahiru sobs.

And he's still so watchful. They've done this only twice before, and she knows how studious he can be when it really matters. Quiet Fakir and his vigilance. Quiet Fakir and those fingers between her legs, a second sinking into the heat of her, sure and steady.

Ahiru whimpers and slaps her other hand onto her face too.

He allows a simple hum, then continues kissing his way down her stomach. The curve of her waist, just left of her belly button, the crease of her thigh. She splutters beneath her fingers and her knees shake at the temptation of it all.

"You don't- um, you don't have to-"

His tongue is so warm. And wet. And sure as anything, as he applies particular pressure there, where torso gives way to her freckled thigh, and she watches him through the cracks of her fingers now, as he smiles, slow and honest.

The way his fingers dig into her hip makes her want to cry again. The bite of his nails digs in and god, she wishes she was as flexible as Rue; she feels hollow and empty and wants to make space for him here, and the possessive weight of him shouldn't burn so sweetly. It's agonizing.

"And if I want to?" he asks, expression neutral. He gives nothing away and reveals nothing and it's somehow so hot.

"I don't know why you'd want to!"

He clicks his tongue and drags his tongue along that crease of her thigh, slow and longing. The heat in the pit of her stomach is positively molten by now, and she feels damp and melted to her very core, in a way she never has before. It's not like - they've done this before, she thinks very passionately, even if it'd only been twice, even if Fakir's face has never been this close to _her_.

One hand cups her hips while the other takes a thigh and presses it back. She keens at the loss of friction - that thumb on her clit had been better than anything she'd ever been able to do herself - but he doesn't leave her wanting long. His mouth is warmer than even his hand had been, and even if his tongue doesn't quite have the dexterity of a digit, well, it's softer and hotter than anything else she's experienced, and the noise that escapes her is almost feral.

It's a sob. She is definitely sobbing. All of the bones in her body become goo and she flops back into his pillows, unable to face him, hands in her hair now, her bangs, pulling wildly as she gawks at the ceiling.

"That's!" Words are far too difficult. Ahiru's poor braid must frizz out as she tosses her head back and forth. "I- _Oh!_ "

She wishes she knew how to shut up. Her stupid leaky mouth is incapable of it apparently. It doesn't slow Fakir down any, though - if anything, it inspires him to continue on, and Ahiru can feel the heat glowing off of her cheeks as her hips give way, desperately trying to follow in his motions and find a rhythm with him. Princess Tutu had been a prima ballerina, talented and effortless, but Ahiru had only worn the mask of her, and struggles to do anything gracefully.

She doesn't have the time to worry about it. Nor does she have the proper capacity. She's wet and messy and grasps at the sheets, pushes her fingers through his hair and tugs, blinking rapidly. It's like she can't sit still, and yelps an apology as she all but bucks against his face, and the resulting sigh he gives is barely audible but still manages to cut through her more cleanly than his blade ever could.

"Ssssorry, sorry, Fakir..!" Halfheartedly, she tries tugging on his hair, because it has to be gross, having his face so close to her bits like that, and she's so thoroughly drenched right now she both wants to die and also wants him to never ever stop, please.

It only makes him look up at her, eyes all hard and determined, like he has something to prove. He doesn't. Still, something pinches in her chest, and elsewhere, and keyed up like nothing else, Ahiru manages a whining cry of his name, one last time, before he shifts to sucking on her clit instead.

Legs shaking, she shatters beneath his mouth, knees and thighs and hands and shoulders, pressed so flat against the mattress. Ahiru reels, one hand still tangled so thoroughly in his hair, breathing heavy, and Fakir smiles as he kisses up her heaving chest.

"H… Have… how…" She gulps as much air as she can, feeling fuzzy and tingly. "... You... ?"

"I know… things."

"Wh." Ahiru blinks at the ceiling, then tries to turn her face to look at him. He kisses her jaw and then just behind her hair, far too serenely, for somebody who's just had his face between her legs.

"... I might've done some research," Fakir admits.

Ever the nerd. She loves him. Clumsily, she attempts to brush her fingers through his hair, though in the end she just ends up dragging her fingers along his neck.

It does something, at least. Ahiru is stupid but not clueless - she's noticed, of course, that Fakir tends to be very quiet when they're… like _this,_ in bed, making love, whatever she wants to call it, whatever won't make her head explode and float away. He is a man of little expression usually, but it doesn't mean he's made of stone. Fingers pulling gently on his throat make his hips jerk, however subtly, and the weight of his dick, pressing to her thigh, is unmistakable.

Her brows raise. Fakir exhales through his nose.

"Did…" Ahiru swallows her fear and embraces courage, instead. "Did you think about it often?"

"Ahiru."

"It's okay, um." He's so hard, pressed to her thigh, and Ahiru strokes the pretty line of his throat with her thumb. Dips delicately to the place where his skin is thinnest, just beneath his Adam's apple. "... if you did. It's okay. I think I'd… like it?"

It's so easy to feel his pulse here, the catch of his breath. He twitches against her leg, hot and heavy. She bites her lip again and considers it.

"Cuz… cuz even if I'm not, like, super pretty or hot or anything, um, if you still… thought about me like that, it would mean-"

Fakir presses open-mouthed kisses to her jaw. "You talk too much," he mutters.

And he doesn't talk enough. Maybe this is just how they'll cancel each other out - Fakir will give her pointed, heated looks and she'll babble embarrassing sweet-nothings enough for the both of them. They'll meet somewhere in the middle and find equilibrium, and maybe, just maybe, she will find the grit to touch him properly, in the way he deserves, but from someone more talented and dexterous than her.

But in the end she is herself - clumsy, honest Ahiru, she who wears her heart on her sleeve and trips over cracks on the sidewalk, and figures she might as well trust Fakir to be honest with her. Even if she doesn't see what he sees.

"... I… maybe I thought about you," she admits, tiny, barely louder than a whisper. She turns her face, stubbornly, and presses her thumb there, in that pit of his throat, feeling him swallow. His stare is so hard as she says, "Maybe I thought about you a lot."

He blinks slowly at her. Shifts and squirms, then presses his forehead to hers, a hand cupped firmly behind her head, holding her there. "Thought about _what_?"

"Y… You," she says, lowering her eyes, but he's got her held in place, so she can't really _look_ at what she's talking about. But all of him, really; pretty hands, no matter the scars, lean chest and a bruising birthmark, long legs and strong arms and steady heart, and- and that particular, exciting weight of him, still pressed to her thigh, pulsing in a way that matches the racing feeling she feels in her throat. "I wanted…! I wanted to be enough for you, I guess, and I still… want that."

He shakes his head and scrunches his nose. "Do you think I'd do this with just anyone?"

Well. "No?"

"Do you think I'd do this out of pity?" His lashes are long and dark, and cast pretty shadows on his cheeks. "Ahiru, you…"

"Sorry," she says, shoulders bunching up.

He cups her neck now, hand firm. She feels sweaty and stupid and stilll so wet, ugh, and the way he's holding her doesn't help; she wants him to have something to find purchase in, something to hold against him, something soft and yielding and pretty.

Ah. That pinching feeling in her chest must be guilt. Ahiru purses her lips.

"... I have never wanted another woman the way I want you." And he means it; Fakir doesn't just say things for the sake of it. He sugarcoats nothing, even if it would spare her feelings. "I thought you knew that."

"But if you could change me," she tries.

"I already made you human, didn't I?" He kisses her brow, then her nose. "What makes you think you're not already exactly how I want you?"

She wishes he'd kiss her. Wishes he'd slip up, even for a moment, in his careful handling of her, and press a little too hard. Ahiru wants his bruising kiss just as much as she wants his kindness, wants to be crushed beneath him and feel the weight of him between her twitching legs. He's still so hard against her thigh, and when she reaches down in a bout of courage to confirm such, Ahiru finally gets him to blush.

He tries so valiantly to keep his expression neutral. His lips purse. Brows furrow a little. Ah, but his heated cheeks are her favorite sight.

"... You too?' she asks shyly.

Fakir chuffs and pulses in her hand. His dick is more honest than he is, and far less of a brat about his feelings. "That was not the intention."

"But I want you to…" Ahiru squeezes experimentally, just barely, just a brief tightening of his fingers, and the noise he makes in his throat is one she will remember, surely, when she's by herself in the bathtub with the lights turned down low. "... Please?"

He opens and closes his mouth. Tries to pretend like he doesn't want it, probably, because even after all of this time, Fakir is still playing chivalrous knight. Puh. As if he was ever chivalrous back then.

"... Playing that it's for you is underhanded."

She does smile this time, guilty and playful. "But it _would_ be for me too!"

Ahiru hooks her scrawny thigh over his hip. When she tightens her leg around him and pivots just that little bit closer, and the tip of him presses to her heat, they both sigh. Even if he's more reserved about it, he cannot fully mask the heavy way his hand rests on her hip now, how the other hand, still cupped along the back of her neck, pulls her more firmly to him.

"Aaah," she gasps, brows taut, peeking down between them. Her chest is nearly as flat as his, pasty white and freckled, but - but the fingers on her hip leave crescent-moon, stark-white marks in their wake. "Oh."

Her hips budge. It's slippery, this space between her thighs, and Ahiru blushes more fiercely just thinking about _why,_ and he slides so clumsy against her. It takes a moment, with Fakir's hand on her hip as guiding as it is comforting, and when the tip of his cock presses to her clit she groans properly.

His nails dig into her skin. He exhales, heavy, against her lips. "Christ."

"Y-You're," and it's so hard to swallow. Or _think._ Everything in her wants to curve into him, wants him to slip inside and also keep doing that, because it seems like it's short circuiting his brain just as much as it is hers. "That feels…"

"I _know_ ," he says through gritted teeth.

He shifts his hips and brushes against that spot again, and it's so effortless, with how slicked he is with her, and her knee hooks around his hips desperately. She _wants_.

Fakir makes such quiet little sighing noises. His hip bones are so sharp against the palm of her hand, and everytime he brushes against her clit he does this little exhaling thing, brows wrinkled, and nearly does as much for her as the friction does. The effect he has on her is so weird, she thinks, how he can just breathe a certain way and unravel her so thoroughly. It makes her wish she could sigh pretty and lay under him and be something worth loving, but the thought doesn't gain the wings it so desires, because then he positions his hips a hair differently, and Fakir slips inside of her, just barely.

He swears beneath his breath. Ahiru clutches his back and squeezes herself to his chest, heart thundering. "Fuck," he mutters. "Fuck, you're wet."

"Sorry," she squeaks, eyes shut.

"That's-" Fakir sinks more deeply into her, and the hand on the back of her neck goes slack. His fingers spread, pinky brushing along the line of her spine, and Ahiru didn't even know that part of her body was sensitive. "... The last thing you need to apologize for," he finishes, finally, mouth pressed to her jaw.

"Aaah, oh, um, then…?"

"Good," he says, as if it is tremendously difficult for him. It fills her with a certain thrill, one she can't seem to put a name to. "It's good."

 _She's_ good. She feels a little like she's vibrating all over, and it's all she can do to cling to him as he thrusts again, slowly, tenderly. The thrill is voyeuristic, she decides, and wonders when she'd become such a little pervert; Fakir is struggling to keep his cool, and to be able to peek through his carefully built walls, to marvel in the cracks of his calm - well, at least she knows he's not lying to her. At least she knows he's being genuine when he says it's good.

She _likes_ watching him lose himself. Ahiru likes when his rhythm falters, and when his hips stutter and he holds himself inside of her, just a millisecond too long. The rest of it feels good too, of course - that hollow, empty feeling she'd felt before is now sufficiently and gleefully no longer an issue, and even if it's not as good as his mouth, Ahiru still feels him, deep and heavy inside of her, and that's a special thrill she'd never thought she'd get to have.

But there really is something about watching him. His hand, clasped so tightly on her hip, or feeling his lips on her jaw, a little slack, alternating between kissing and breathing heavy.

Fakir won't let her see his face. She doesn't need to see him to feel his blushing cheek, pressed so tightly to hers.

Something unfurls in her chest, wicked and delighted. She holds it close, because it's a private sort of joy, a personal victory, and then she hikes her other leg up from under him and links that one around his waist, too.

It is apparently too much. Fakir splutters and spasms and his hips jerk, too roughly, and then he's clutching her like she's a lifeline. It doesn't hurt, not really, just feels _different,_ and nothing could make the way he presses so desperately into her _not_ worth it, so she links her ankles and squeezes his hips as tightly as she can.

"You can't," he grunts, then rolls, pinning her on her back. He tries to draw back but she chases after him, and his fingers tremble as he brushes her hair back from her eyes. "I won't last very long."

"That's okay!"

"I _want_ to last longer." His thumb presses to her cheek, so delightfully. She can feel the shudder in his hips, like it's taking every bit of iron-clad self control to keep himself from coming apart.

She wishes he would. Is it too much to want to be used by him? Ahiru weighs the sentiment on her tongue, then decides she doesn't really mind the thought, so she _says_ , "I don't mind," and reaches behind him to run her fingers through his hair, too.

The look he fits her with is pure determination. " _I_ mind."

"But!"

The hand that'd been on her hip finds her clit again, and _oh._

She can't help but squeeze her legs around him - it's pure impulse, pure reaction. Something in her flutters, unbidden and eager, and the press of his dick hits so differently this time, and the breath he exhales this time breaks off at the end. Ahiru chases after him, and she thinks they manage to fall into some sort of a rhythm, some sort of a dance. When Fakir sinks as deeply as he can and shakes all the way to his elbows, Ahiru keens beneath his trembling thumb, and when he pulls back, unable to maintain it anymore, she follows in his shadow, eager.

It's like he's trying to disengage but can't bring himself to do it. Fakir seems to be at war with himself, like there's part of him that really does just want to give in and pray at the altar of her hips for the rest of time and then there's another, probably stupidly stubborn and 'rational' part of him that wants to make this last or whatever. It's sweet but misguided, and Ahiru wants him there, buried deep, shaking and twitching and breathing low, in that pretty way he does, when he comes. Wishes, even, that he'd let her be useful, just this once.

His head drops to the pillow beside her head and he groans. If she wasn't so close to him she probably wouldn't be able to hear it, but, but - Ahiru clutches his back and digs her nails in and follows after him, riding as effectively as she can from beneath him.

God, she wants to get him there. If there's any justice in this new world he's inked and pieced together, she would get him there already.

But he is as stubborn as he is loyal. The thumb pressing to her clit circles, in the way she'd liked before, and her legs shake, too, as her own eyes squeeze together and she matches his inability to keep it together. It surprises her, how suddenly the switch is flipped in her, how _suddenly_ the orgasm hits her like a tidal wave, washing over her like death and starlight.

She can't help the yelp. Can't help the dip of her nails into his back, scrambling for something to hold herself to, and Fakir lasts exactly thirty seconds before he falls over that same cliff, shuddering, moaning softly, jaw lax, face pressed so completely to the pillow beside her.

He breathes so heavily. His chest heaves against hers. Ahiru blinks at the ceiling, eyes hot, lungs burning.

"... Ch." His hand flexes, then rests on her stomach.

"One was enough," she squeaks.

"You can have more than one," Fakir says, stubbornly, so stubbornly. He drums his fingers on her skin idly.

"One was _enough,_ " Ahiru insists, lips pressed together. "I don't want to be greedy-"

He huffs and snuggles into the crook of her neck. "Shut up. Be greedy."

"But!"

"I can't believe you thought I wanted you to have boobs," he says, completely ignoring her. "Like it would make a difference to me."

Ahiru feels herself fluster, metaphorical feathers ruffling. "It's! Hey, that's not fair! I think that's a normal thing for girls to worry about, I- do you know what it feels like when I have to wear Raetsel's old clothes? She's- I feel, like, like some kind of pipsqueak, like I'm still twelve or something-"

It seems Fakir is far too comfortable in his post-orgasm haze to feel embarrassed for talking about his feelings. "I liked Mytho."

"I!" Ahiru wriggles against him, vindicated, but he coils his arms too pleasantly around her to make righteous escape an option. Bully! "I'm not _that_ stupid. I know that!"

For someone so shy about pda, Fakir is so generous when it comes to snuggling. It would be adorable, she thinks, if she wasn't so flustered, and tries folding her arms over her chest in order to pout properly, but he's already got her tugged with her back to his chest, and one hand tucks itself so contentedly over her breast, as if there's even much for him to hold at all.

Spluttering, she squirms nervously. "Fakir?"

He spoons her so completely. She is trapped, absolutely, and he's like a furnace, for goodness sake. As if she wasn't already embarrassingly sweaty enough.

His nose presses into her hair. "Don't you ever think you're not enough for me again."

It's not like she ever stopped blushing in the first place, but she can feel it more dramatically now, buzzing from her cheeks like a terrible sunburn. Goodness, she must be glowing. Compliments coming from him are so few and far between - receiving even one in broad daylight is akin to being showered and praised to the highest heavens, when it comes to Fakir. Especially if it's not muttered.

Guilt pinches in her chest again. It means he's worried about her - worried enough to lavish her.

"Sorry," she says automatically.

"Cut it out."

"Sorry! Really! I mean…! Sorry," she says, wincing as he pinches her hip in repremination. "For making you feel bad for me. Or. Feeling like you have to do all of that in order to make me feel better. I didn't… want you to see me like that?"

He kisses the back of her neck, so tenderly it might make her cry again. "Stop apologizing for all of it."

Ahiru doesn't know if she knows how to do that. Well. She knows how to bite it back when it's an undeserved apology - like when Fakir was a total butthead when they were in school together, she would've never apologized to him then - but stuff like this, with plausible reason, with things that dance so effortlessly with things like guilt and worth. How is she supposed to separate the two?

She chews her lip. Stares at his cracked window and watches the curtain flutter in the morning breeze. If she sits and waits too long, some of the local alley cats will begin whining for food, and if she's not there to give them breakfast, who will?

"... I think… I want to dance again?"

His lips curl into a small smile. "We can do that."

"I won't be very good though! I'm still really bad at walking."

"I know."

"It's going to be, like, super annoying for you to have to put up with me. I'll probably cry and complain a lot."

His laugh makes her smile, too. "I would expect nothing less."

"Will you still kiss me though?" The morning sun really is bright. If she wasn't coiled so tightly in Fakir's embrace, she might close the curtains, maybe fight with his blinds. "... Even when I'm useless and annoying and not sexy."

"Ahiru."

"Sorry!"

He pinches her hip again and she shuts up. It's probably for the best. The problems aren't solved, and Ahiru thinks the feelings are still there, even if they're momentarily placated by the numbing warmth of his arms and the dull soreness between her hips. But she can work with this, probably, as long as she works at it - and she has nothing but time, now that she has legs again, now that she has hands and the tongue needed to communicate with him and everyone else.

She just has to master her knees again. Ahiru squints at the window and nods to herself resolutely. Knees, then pointe. And then maybe a better bra, just in case.


End file.
